


The Rest Will Follow

by ScarlettSiren



Category: ATEEZ (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Fluff, Happy 1000 Followers!, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Light Angst, M/M, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettSiren/pseuds/ScarlettSiren
Summary: Seonghwa is an artist whose work has garnered international acclaim and a large internet following, but no amount of popularity has filled the hole in his lonely, aching heart. When he pours all of his longing and desires into a single statue, he creates what can only be described as the man of his dreams.But he is only made of clay, and Seonghwa longs for more. Moved by his devotion to his art, a lesser god grants him the wish he so desires: he makes the statue human. But a god’s gifts always comes with a cost, and only so much can be received when nothing is given in return.
Relationships: Jeong Yunho/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 59
Kudos: 300
Collections: The K-Pop Storybook





	The Rest Will Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for 1000 followers on Twitter and 500 AO3 subs!! WOW!! This was the fic selected by YOU by voting on the polls I presented! Here’s what you ended up with:
> 
> Ship: YunHwa, Porn with Plot  
> Setting: AU w Supernatural Elements + Fantasy & Modern Day (these were all SO CLOSE that I went with all 3)
> 
> Ironically, I commented about a “YunHwa Pygmalion AU” ages ago (that I never intended to write) after seeing that clip of the two of them at a fansign where Seonghwa joked that he created a beautiful statue that came to life and that statue was Yunho (Yunho replied he wasn’t sure about the quality of the joke but accepted the compliment). It reminded me of the Greek myth, and when all the polls were done I realized that little idea I had actually worked perfectly for it.

Deft fingers slide through slick, moist clay, molding it in smooth strokes across a wooden frame, vaguely humanoid in shape. It sits bolted to a platform that is held up off the ground crudely with cinder blocks. The weather has been cold and so Seonghwa’s drafty studio has been rather icy. He has the heat cranked just enough to take the edge off, his feet going a little numb at the heel and toes, bare save for small drips of stray clay. The once-steaming cup of tea on the floor nearby has long since gone cold.

Inspiration comes and goes for him these days, so he’s grateful for the vision that presented itself to him as he sat alone eating his boring breakfast of plain toast. He imagines the kind of man he would like to have sitting across from him, sipping coffee and sharing in morning gossip. Maybe Seonghwa would bother to cook waffles or pancakes or _eggs,_ something that takes a little effort and fills the void in his stomach. He imagines someone who will fill the void in his heart just the same.

Seonghwa is not a Greek tragedy. He is not blighted with something as horrifying as a monstrous form or a hideous face or even an abhorrent personality. He does not turn men to stone with a glance, nor is he cursed to speak words never to be heard or believed. He has simply been completely and entirely unlucky in love.

Of course, it cannot help that he spends most of his time locked away in his studio, surrounded by people born of the canvas and clay, more often than not. Even when he visits the gallery, or an art function, a gala or expo…he never finds much more than ill-received propositions impersonally scribbled upon the backs of pretentious, glossy business cards. Men far too old for his tastes. Women, just the same. They strategically cover their wedding bands, or flash the obscenely expensive watches adorning their wrists. They offer to pay more than what Seonghwa asks for his pieces if he delivers them in person.

He always declines.

Seonghwa has become somewhat of a darling in his corner of the art world. He was lucky enough to get noticed online when he was still in high school, posting his creations on his tiny Instagram account. His sketches earned him kind praises, his paintings garnered him some attention…but his sculptures went viral, leading to several opportunities to study at prestigious art schools all across Europe.

He was glad to take it.

A _‘Renaissance Man’,_ they called him. Proof that traditional art wasn’t dead with the coming generations. Seonghwa finds the concept laughable, reminds himself to remain humble even when they spit such nonsense, when they try to place what feels like the entire future of baroque art on his shoulders.

More for a sense of irony (and to establish a recognizable brand), Seonghwa renames his Instagram, ‘RenaissanceMars’.

For a while after college, things were honestly ideal. He gets more than enough commission work to pay the rent, and in the weeks and months when his inspiration completely drains out of him, his ad revenue sustains him. He records himself sculpting or painting sometimes, for YouTube or IG Lives, and even gets an ASMR mic. His followers coo sweetly at him about how easy it is to feel relaxed or fall asleep watching him mold clay while he gently whispers encouraging words or informative anecdotes about the process or the history of the practice.

Seonghwa isn’t ungrateful. He is living what is many an artist’s ideal: creating at his own will and being paid more than enough to survive in the capitalist hellscape of this day and age. He doesn’t scorn his situation at all.

But _god,_ how he wishes for someone to _share it_ with.

He wipes his hands on his clothes; paint-mottled gray sweats and a threadbare white sweater that has more holes than his brush holder. He grabs his phone, taking a small break to stretch a little.

His Instagram is buzzing in the wake of his earlier post, just a cropped photo of the wooden form bolted to a solid foundation, only the beginnings of the clay work visible and accompanied with a caption teasing things to come.

He scrolls his notifications. More comments about the impressiveness of his work. More flirtations in his DMs from women—and often _girls—_ halfway across the country, across the world. They call him “oppa”, sweet-talk him and claim to love him, to adore his art. And that is nice, in some ways. To be admired.

But Seonghwa…he longs for more.

He is surrounded by faces and bodies and _art_ in his studio, but they are made of nothing more than clay and canvas. He is still _alone._

What kind of companionship does he long for, he wonders. He thinks on it as he let his hands shape the clay in front of him once more, molding it to an ideal he can only dream up.

Seonghwa works on the statue for weeks and weeks. In between commissioned works and charity pieces he pours hours into his passion project, taking care with every detail. Soon, he begins to take shape…a man casually seated on the floor, one leg bent underneath the other, which is slightly outstretched. One of his arms is braced behind him on his base while the other is draped casually over his knee. He is looking toward the ground slightly, wearing a pensive expression. 

Seonghwa spends time on each part of him until he is satisfied. He shapes for him thick thighs and broad shoulders that speak to his strength. He spends countless hours on his hands, the fingers long and delicate. The face he molds for him is kind, sweet, with prominent cheeks, gentle eyes and a soft smile. He shamelessly sinks several hours into perfecting his cock, too, as well as detailing every fine stroke of his hair, a simple but sweet style that reminds him of an idol “boyfriend look”. He works on him until he is _perfect,_ until late fall has become the end of winter. He cannot forgo socks most nights in his studio anymore due to the frigid cold eeking its way through the walls, and he often wraps himself in a blanket when working on the final touches.

He and the statue become mirrors of each other as he begins draping fabrics over the hands and feet and limbs to slow the drying process. He muses to himself what it would be like to have such a man to cuddle up with during these cold months, and he aches with want.

The clay remains cold.

***

Seonghwa is away from his apartment on a supply run when two men appear in his studio as though out of thin air.

The shorter of the two, a man with a certainly unique sense of fashion who confidently sports a long, multicolor coat, looks around and shivers.

“Why did you bring me to this dusty old place, again?”

“Can’t you tell, Hongjoong? Just look around you. His art is _everywhere.”_ The other coos. He is ethereally beautiful, with pale blond hair, a strong jaw and _perfect_ teeth.

The shorter of them, Hongjoong, grimaces as he steps over a stray piece of wood that is coated in globs of half-dried clay. He eyes the canvases left leaning against the walls to dry, and shrugs.

“You know I care little for the visual arts, Yeosang.”

“I can’t imagine how; you’re so vain.” He retorts dryly.

“Bah, says you.” Hongjoong rebuffs with a pointed look. “So, what, you plan to bless him or something? Seems like he’s doing fine for himself, all things considered.”

Yeosang gives an assessing glance toward the nearly-completed statue at the center of the room. “I cannot say for sure, yet, but it will come to me.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes, though they do end up lingering on one particular painted piece of a pirate ship gliding through the clouds.

“So rarely do you bless humans nowadays…he should be honored.”

Yeosang shrugs. “Perhaps I’ll send him a little inspiration and see where it takes him.”

Hongjoong nods absently, still looking at the same painting. He can’t help but admire the way the paint at the edges of the clouds shimmers, like a literal silver lining.

“I am sure he will not disappoint you.”

By the time Seonghwa returns, the men are long gone, leaving no evidence that they were ever even there.

***

After the sculpting is finished, the most nerve wracking process begins.

Seonghwa is meticulous in his firing, however, ensuring his kiln will not destroy all of his hard work. His patience pays off when he removes the statue all in one piece, the clay a soft white to signify that it is dry.

It is the last day of February when Seonghwa can finally call him finished. He can only admire his work for a few scant seconds before fatigue hits him like a freight train. He manages to pass out on the dusty couch that’s shoved into the furthest corner of his studio by the window, far too tired to make the trek up to his loft bedroom.

He falls into a deep, deep sleep and he dreams of a man he does not know.

Seonghwa wakes too tired to do anything save lounge around and sulk. His body aches from head to toe, and he runs himself a bath in an attempt to regain some muscle function. 

It is days before proper meals, rest and numerous hot baths make him feel like a human once more.

Every night, Seonghwa continues to dream of the same man…again and again. But he is not a man…and he is not the statue, either. He is an ethereal being that he intrinsically knows is far beyond his scope of imagining. He does not share the face of the sculpture Seonghwa has only recently finished, but he is _vivid_ in his feature’s details, and Seonghwa commits them to memory.

When he wakes on the fifth night, startled by the sheer clarity of his latest dream, he dives for his brushes and paints, pulling out an unused canvas from the stack in the corner, and gets to work.

A nebulous amount of time later—with far too few meals and breaks in between—he is finished. Seonghwa isn’t one to brag about his own work but his _subject_ is stunning; an otherworldly man with pale blond hair that frames his face, a sharp jaw, attractive, prominent cheeks, elegant brows and two rows of perfect chiclet teeth. His expression is beatific, his eyes pointing toward the upper corner of the canvas and head tilted just so. Seonghwa has crowned him with a halo of light, clothed him in fine fabrics of ambiguous shapes draped across his shoulders. He is on a background painted to look like stained glass, as though he belongs on the wall of an ancient, regal church. Gold leaf has been pressed into the outlines of the halo and every so many strands of hair, making the painting shimmer. It looks _saintly._ He looks _godly._

Seonghwa posts a photo of the painting to his Instagram, captioning it, ‘I kept dreaming of him.’

His notifications go wild, so after a couple minutes of responding to the lucky first few comments, he decides it’s a great time to ignore the app for the rest of the day. His body aches again as he stands and stretches, and his stomach rumbles angrily, demanding recompense for the last few days’ pathetic excuse for nutrition.

After he eats, he gets a call from the art director of one of the galleries he displays his works at downtown. He reminds him of the upcoming show—the days have bled together, so for that, Seonghwa is grateful—and asks if he will bring the new piece. He thinks it’s “captivating”. He doesn’t have any plans for it…doesn’t even know what came over him that made him paint it, so he readily agrees.

The director seems pleased as they end the call, and Seonghwa stares blankly toward the general direction of his closet.

He’s going to need to iron his suit.

***

Seonghwa vividly remembers his first showing. Standing on the periphery of the galleries where his art hangs, vibrating with nerves and eavesdropping on the patrons. He’s never heard anything _too_ scathing, but he is hard not to notice, so he wonders if they try to play to his ego.

Now, however, is a different story. He immediately partakes in the open bar, nursing a glass of wine and taking in the _other_ art. The exhibits this quarter are particularly diverse, with each room’s theme varying more greatly than they had it previous years. Seonghwa finds himself lingering in the area that has been designated for Folk Art, enjoying the bright colors and creative mediums.

He is closely staring at the finer details of a rather intricately-painted tiger when the click of a camera shutter calls his attention. He turns to see a familiar smile as it emerges from behind the lens.

“Jongho.” He strides over and shakes his hand, which the young photographer returns with gusto. “I was hoping you would be here. I hadn’t made my way to the photography section just yet. I assume you’re exhibiting?”

“Of course. And the director agreed to let me take a few pictures of the event, too. He probably just wants to steal one for the website.” Jongho responds with a soft laugh. “How have you been? I saw your new piece…it’s even more beautiful in person.”

“You flatter me.” Seonghwa rebuffs. They chat for a little while about the latest in their lives, complain about Instagram reach and old, arrogant men at art functions. Eventually, Jongho takes his leave to continue taking photos, claiming he was happy to catch up and they should hang out sometime.

Seonghwa absently agrees before he continues through the rest of the gallery.

Debussy is playing softly in the background as he makes his way to the photography exhibit. He can spot Jongho’s out right away without reading the placards…there’s something so unique about his composition, and Seonghwa finds himself drawn to it. He lingers there for a while, until he notices Bach is now playing and decides to move on.

When Seonghwa finally reaches the room where his own work is displayed, he nearly drops his wine glass.

There, standing not two meters in front of his newest painting, is _him._

Pale blond hair frames an ethereally-handsome face, falling just past a familiar sharp jaw. Strong, distinctive brows rise as he turns to meet his gaze.

His subject.

The man he had painted.

Seonghwa splutters, wondering if he’s had too much to drink. Two glasses should hardly be hitting him _this_ badly. And besides, hallucinations are generally the product of another vice entirely, one he is certainly not known to partake in.

“It—it’s you.” He stammers, finally managing to find his voice. A cursory glance around the room tells him they are alone, which is a little unusual, but not unheard of.

The beautiful man smiles, revealing those perfect rows of chiclet teeth. “So it is.”

“I saw you, I—” Seonghwa realizes he will sound _incredibly_ insane if he tells this stranger he dreamt of him before he painted this particular piece, so he swallows the words down. Instead, he goes for a safer option. “Have we…met before?”

“Mm, once or twice upon a dream, perhaps.” He replies, a teasing lilt to his tone and a clever gleam in his eyes.

He somehow _knows._

“You may call me Yeosang.” He continues when Seonghwa says nothing. When the artist offers his hand, Yeosang takes it, but holds up the other in a quelling gesture. “I know well enough who _you_ are, I assure you, Park Seonghwa. _RenaissanceMars.”_

Seonghwa swallows his tongue as he shakes the other’s hand.

“To more directly answer your question, no. We have not met. But I have admired your work from afar.” Yeosang explains. “I admit, in a moment of vanity, to selfishly sending you some…inspiration for this piece.”

“I don’t believe giving an artist inspiration is selfish at all.” Seonghwa murmurs, staring at the floor. “You didn’t demand anything of me. You only showed me your face.”

Yeosang huffs a laugh, fondly amused. “Of course.”

Seonghwa’s hands are shaking. Beyond any of the hows and whys, he yearns to ask Yeosang just who he is and what he _wants._

Seeming to sense his inner turmoil and confusion, Yeosang motions to the painting.

“I admit as well my motives _were_ purely selfish. I would like to buy this piece for myself.” Yeosang tells him. “You are welcome to name any price…but in addition, I would like to ask you something else.”

“What would that be?” Seonghwa croaks out, his throat dry.

“If money were not the only form of payment one could offer, what would you ask for?”

Seonghwa looks up to meet his gaze again. It isn’t patronizing or amused. It’s benevolent and indulgent. Expectantly eager. He swallows.

“I don’t…think it’s something anyone can give.” He answers honestly, his voice cracking.

Yeosang’s lips turn up in a smirk. “Why don’t you try me?”

Seonghwa lets out a long, slow breath. “I’d just…like to not be alone.”

Yeosang falls silent, then, watching him with a devastated, piteous expression. Seonghwa wants the ground to swallow him whole.

It’s a moment before he speaks again, but when he does, his voice is calm and wistful.

“There are few things in this world more powerful than the devotion of an artist. And one of them is love.”

Seonghwa can’t help the mirthless huff that escapes him.

“The love of an artist is a beautiful thing.” Yeosang continues. “I will grant you this wish. Someone with whom to share your love, who can love you equally in return.”

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. He isn’t sure if he should be offended, but it distinctly feels like he’s being mocked—except, Yeosang just smiles, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. It burns with unnatural warmth.

“Seonghwa. I want you to think about what you most desire in this world. I want you to return home, and I want you to believe in the manifestation of that dream. The rest will follow.”

Somehow, Seonghwa feels he should believe him.

***

Hours later, Seonghwa staggers home with little more livelihood than a zombie. He has managed an incredible sale, but meeting this _Yeosang_ person has thrown him completely off his axis. He can’t be blamed for snapping up a half-empty bottle of rosé from his wine cradle, grabbing himself a glass as well because he isn’t a _heathen._

As Seonghwa nurses his wine, his mind cannot help but to light upon Yeosang’s last words to him. They had felt like a promise, like a deal or a pact etched into his very skin. His shoulder is still tingling with warmth when he absently runs his fingers over it.

What had Yeosang meant?

As he finishes his glass, his gaze falls upon his masterpiece across the room…the ideal man that Seonghwa has conjured from nothing but clay.

He sets his wine glass aside, approaching the statue. His pensive smile is almost painful to look upon for how much Seonghwa _aches._

“What I want most in this world…” Seonghwa mumbles, crawling on his hands and knees until he is in the lap of his own statue. He caresses his cold clay cheek, a thumb skirting over his unyielding lips. “I want…”

His other hand comes up, stroking down the opposite side of the statue’s face, from temple to chin.

“I want…I want for a man like you to come along, and show me what it is to be loved.”

He presses his lips to the statue’s, kissing him as though he were made of flesh and blood.

The clay is cold and lifeless, at first. It is an empty kiss in the way Seonghwa feels he leads an empty life; full of art and creation but no purpose. No love.

Then, warmth floods over him.

The statue in front of him gives, and he pitches forward but suddenly there are strong arms winding around his waist, bracing him as he grabs the statue’s shoulders to stop his descent. His hands meet not clay but flesh, and the lips beneath his move, then part, gently returning his affection.

Seonghwa’s brain completely short-circuits. He splutters in shock and pulls away to sit back on his heels, still holding onto the statue’s shoulders. He is no statue, now, but a _man._ White clay has turned to beautiful sun-kissed olive skin, fluffy brown hair and kind umber eyes. That pensive expression becomes a soft smile, brimming with warmth.

“Hello, Seonghwa.”

The world goes eerily silent for several long moments.

“Drunk.” He finally blurts out, almost unintelligible. “Drunk, I am very drunk. I must be.”

The statue laughs gently, shaking his head. His hands have moved up to carefully brace Seonghwa by his elbows. “You aren’t imagining me. I am a gift.”

“A…gift.” Seonghwa repeats, feeling delirious.

The statue nods. “But I can only remain ‘til the dawn.” 

His voice is rife with regret. Seonghwa frowns. “Huh?”

“Not only once, though. Each night, I’ll return. Come sunset, we can be together once more.” The statue assures.

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “But why?”

“There is a limit to a god’s power.” The statue explains.

Seonghwa blanches. “A g-god?”

The statue nods. “I was given life by the lesser god of artists, Yeosang.”

Seonghwa thinks that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Was there really a god _just_ for artists? Weren’t gods usually of more important things, like the sea and the sky and the sun?

“I think I…need to bed. Sleep. I need sleep.” Seonghwa says weakly, pushing away from the statue—the _stranger—_ and nearly tumbling over.

“Whoa, easy!” The statue cautions, grabbing his arms once more and helping him to his feet.

Seonghwa only then notices that the man is _naked,_ averting his eyes as a deep blush creeps up his neck and over his face. “I—I’ll be fine, I can…you should…”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. The whole world feels like it’s been turned upside-down and has unceremoniously dumped him on the ceiling in the process.

“It’s okay if you need to sleep.” The statue insists, smiling kindly, though there’s something a little melancholy in his eyes.

“Clothes.” Seonghwa grunts, nearly tripping as he all but dives for one of his workbenches to snap up one of the larger swaths of linen he uses to keep his clay moist. He throws it at the statue, looking away from him again. “Cover yourself. You’re naked.”

“All right.” He replies with an amused chuckle, shaking his head as he ties the fabric around his own waist. “Better?”

“Mm.” Seonghwa hums, trudging over to the couch and collapsing onto it face-first. His next words are muffled into the cushions. “At least you’re an obedient hallucination.”

“You’re not hallucinating me.” The statue says, his tone patient and kind. He sits on the floor next to the couch, just watching him. After a long moment, Seonghwa turns his face so that he can look at him, frowning at their proximity.

“You just gonna stare at me all night like some kind of creepy sleep-paralysis demon?”

The statue huffs, rolling his eyes but smiling fondly. “I want to watch over you. Is that a crime?”

“I mean, it’s weird at the least.”

“I’ll have so few hours awake.” The statue murmurs, watching Seonghwa with a look in his eyes that he can’t quite decipher. “I want to spend them with you.”

Seonghwa thinks that would sound so ardently romantic coming from someone who was actually real.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it before sleep drags him under, his unconscious, wine-addled mind apparently unbothered by his unwelcome guest.

***

Seonghwa wakes well after noon and while he’s been spared a splitting headache by drinking _just_ enough wine and no more, his head is _buzzing_ as soon as he’s up. He runs a hand through his hair and casts a cursory glance at the statue. It’s still sitting there as though it had never moved, firmly attached to its base, but there’s a swath of linen draped over his lap. One he doesn’t remember putting there.

Except he remembers throwing it at the _man_ the statue had become…

Seonghwa groans as he peels himself off the couch. He is in desperate need of a boost.

After caffeinating—with tea, _never_ coffee—and putting some food in his stomach, his head feels better, but his mind is still reeling. He can’t help but to keep letting his eyes wander over to his statue. He knows he was hallucinating. He _knows_ he must have been. But it had felt so _real._

Seonghwa resolves to put it behind him, but that’s more easily said than done. He distracts himself with Instagram updates, when Jongho is kind enough to send him a shot of the event from the night before while he’s working on editing them. The man is a saint. He tells him as much, and tags him in the photo for credit when he tosses it up on his account, thanking the gallery and waxing poetic about what a great time he’d had.

It’s only _slightly_ disingenuous. He enjoys showings. He’d even managed to avoid getting accosted by scuzzy old men this time.

He’d met a literal _god,_ though, apparently…if the words of his statue-made-man were to be believed.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. His mind is really all over the place. Maybe all of the social isolation is beginning to finally get to him.

Despite his insistence that the statue incident was, indeed, a hallucination, he finds himself getting jittery as sunset approaches. As the hours wear on and the day grows later, he gets more and more antsy. As he eats dinner, he finds himself glancing between the clock, the window and the statue, the latter of which remains as still and lifeless as ever.

Finally, once his dishes are washed, he sighs, approaching the thing and crossing his arms as his windows grow darker.

“What constitutes ‘sunset’, anyway? When the last rays are gone, or when the entire sun is behind the horizon?” Seonghwa muses aloud, plopping down to sit next to the statue’s leg.

The clay is still and cold, not answering him.

“Do I have to…kiss you again?” Seonghwa murmurs thoughtfully before huffing and looking away. “No. This is _stupid._ I imagined it. I was drunk. It wasn’t real.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath just as the crown of the sun sinks below the horizon. He’s a little disgusted with himself at just how much he longed for it _to_ be real.

“Seonghwa? You seem troubled.”

The voice is gentle and concerned but Seonghwa still squawks in horror and scrambles backwards, his eyes flying open. The statue is flesh and blood once more, just as it had been last night. He _hadn’t_ imagined it.

“B-but…n-no, that’s not…it’s not possible. I was—I _must_ have been hallucinating.” Seonghwa stammers, scrabbling back until he hits a bucket of clay that forces him to stop.

The statue still looks so worried for him, slowly closing the distance between them and kneeling in front of him. He places a gentle hand on Seonghwa’s shin, and it’s _warm._

“You're not hallucinating. I told you, I’m a gift.” He says with a kind smile, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Seonghwa thinks he truly must have gone insane. And yet…this man’s hand is so warm where it touches him, and for a maddening few seconds, Seonghwa realizes just how much he _wants._ He wants this to be real, with every fiber of his being.

“Uh. D-do you have a name?” He asks softly, because he can’t very well just call him ‘statue’, now, can he?

“Yunho.” He answers easily, his smile brightening.

And, of course. A name that can take the meaning of granting something of great value. Yunho is a name not unlike a gift in itself.

“Yunho.” Seonghwa repeats. “It’s, ah—nice to meet you.”

Yunho huffs a soft, amused laugh, shaking his head. “It hardly feels like we’ve just met. You made me, after all.”

Seonghwa feels a lump form in his throat and tries to swallow it down. There’s something so heavy about the idea of it. The implication terrifies him.

Seonghwa had made the statue as an ideal. The kind of man Seonghwa wants—and that Seonghwa wants to want _him._ Does Yunho want him? The sweetness of his earnest gaze answers him in ways he isn’t sure he’s prepared to hear.

But is Yunho the kind of man Seonghwa could love? He is a statue. He has no past, presumably…no memories, no _anything._ What is there of him to fall for?

“You seem troubled again.” Yunho murmurs, his hand moving to Seonghwa’s knee. “Did you maybe want some tea?”

Seonghwa lets out a shaky exhale. Of course. None of those things matter in the grand scheme of things, do they? Yunho is attentive and caring and kind. Those are traits that matter to Seonghwa.

“I’d like that, yes.” He replies, letting Yunho pull him to his feet.

Seonghwa puts the kettle on the stove and they settle at his kitchen table and talk. Seonghwa disappears for a moment to find Yunho something to wear other than a swath of scratchy linen. He returns with an old—but clean—pair of gray sweats and a white tee that have always been a little too large on him. By the time he pours his tea and returns to the table, Yunho has changed.

Yunho doesn’t have all that much to say at first, but he _listens._ More than that, he listens and asks _questions._ Good ones. Ones that allow Seonghwa to expound upon things he would normally never be able to without making whatever company he has either zone out or nod off. But Yunho listens with rapt attention, nodding interestedly and always returning with relevant commentary or more questions.

And it’s…nice.

Seonghwa might come across as an introvert due to his lonely lifestyle, but he is, in fact, an extrovert. The solitude has been _killing_ him. Having someone like Yunho to listen to him is a breath of fresh air.

“So, before you started sculpting dream boyfriends, what other kind of artwork did you do?” Yunho teases, and Seonghwa rolls his eyes.

“A lot of things. Actually, I have an older piece here. One of my first.” He says, getting up and going to the main part of the kitchen. He reaches up toward the top of the cabinets, but even on his tiptoes, he can’t quite reach.

He’s just about to climb up on the counter when he feels warmth against his back, and a quelling hand on his hip.

“Here, let me.” Yunho tells him softly, reaching up with ease and grabbing the vase he’d been going for. Seonghwa turns around to find that Yunho is very, _very_ close to him. “This?”

“Y-yeah.” Seonghwa responds, taking it gingerly from his hands. Their proximity has heat creeping up his neck to his cheeks, and he bites his lip as he looks away.

Yunho smiles, his hands both finding Seonghwa’s hips and squeezing them before he lets go and takes a step back. “Tell me about it.”

It’s a simple vase painted a cool celadon, shaped in the historical Korean style. He had carved sunflowers into one side, clustered together near the center and toward the top. It has a million imperfections he can point out now, but it was the first time he’d created something from clay that didn’t completely fall apart during firing.

Yunho listens as Seonghwa explains how he’d initially started in the Korean historical styles, even dabbling in folk art, but he found his true passion when he tried shifting toward more baroque and renaissance inspiration. He doesn’t think the West did it particularly _better,_ but he finds the techniques and stylings more closely match his own preferences.

He leaves the vase at the center of his kitchen table as they move to the couch, mostly because Seonghwa’s body tends to protest sitting in anything other than luxurious comfort after too long—unless, of course, he is working. Then his body can handle anything until he’s done, after which all the pain tends to hit him at once.

When he tells Yunho this, he tuts at him, shaking his head. “Next time you do that, I’ll give you a massage. You shouldn’t leave that kind of tension untreated.”

There’s no implication in his tone, but Seonghwa blushes bright red regardless.

He and Yunho continue talking well into the night. Since his television is within view, Yunho asks him what he likes to watch, and somehow Seonghwa ends up going on at least three separate tangents about some of the dramas he’s watching. He has the awareness enough to feel self conscious about it afterwards, but Yunho just grins and shakes his head and tells him he wants to hear all about it.

Seonghwa doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until he can’t finish a sentence without yawning, his eyes getting heavier by the minute. He lets his head rest on Yunho’s shoulder, and he can’t get over the comforting warmth of him. Every inch of him seems to blaze like a furnace…like the very kiln that had fired him.

“If you’re tired, you should sleep.” Yunho tells him as Seonghwa struggles to open his eyes more and more with each blink. Eventually he just leaves them closed, only moving his eyebrows to show he’s still listening.

“Mmmyeahbut…you only have ‘til sunrise…” He slurs back sleepily.

“That’s true, but we have tomorrow night, and the night after that, and the night after that…” Yunho reminds him, chuckling softly and running a hand through Seonghwa’s hair. “Sleep, and we can see each other again once the sun sets.”

Seonghwa manages to mumble something he isn’t sure makes any sense, but with the addition of the soothing movement of Yunho’s hand through his hair and gently over his cheek, he passes out within seconds.

When he wakes, he is still on the couch. There’s a blanket thrown over him, and the statue is back on its base, very much made of clay. The clothes he’d given him are folded neatly in a pile on the arm of the couch.

Seonghwa frowns toward the sunlight streaming in from the window across the room, and wonders just when he started to resent the daytime.

***

Sunset can’t come soon enough, no matter how much Seonghwa tries to stay busy or distract himself.

He does a grocery run, cooks himself lunch, organizes his canvases…he even takes a _nap,_ hoping it will help him with staying up later. Nothing seems to make the day go by faster. He isn’t even all that hungry when he forces down some dinner and throws on the newest episode of the current drama he’s watching just to kill some time.

By the time the credits roll, the sun has finally started to set. He heads into the kitchen to clean his dishes, but gets distracted wiping down the countertops and the backsplash. By the time he returns to the living room, he startles because Yunho is standing by the couch, wearing those borrowed clothes again.

“Hey.”

Yunho beams at him with his million-watt smile and Seonghwa thinks it might be something worth waiting all day for.

“Hi. You’re awake! Sorry I missed you. I got distracted cleaning.” Seonghwa sits down on the couch, and Yunho joins him.

“Mm, if you got into a cleaning spell, I’m surprised the place isn’t sparkling.” Yunho teases him, poking him in the side.

Seonghwa huffs. “And just what do you know about my cleaning habits?”

Yunho shrugs. “I know things I can’t explain knowing. Mostly when it comes to you. It’s just how I was made.”

“But you don’t…you can’t see what goes on when you’re a statue?” Seonghwa confirms.

Yunho shakes his head. “No. I wake up, and I go back. It’s just…nothing. It’s probably a lot like falling asleep.”

“Except you don’t dream.” Seonghwa surmises.

“Hm, no.” Yunho shrugs, looking toward the far wall with something like a wistful sigh. “Though it might be nice to dream.”

“I wonder what kind of dreams you’d have.” Seonghwa muses as Yunho slides a hand into his, easy as anything.

“Mm, I don’t know. Maybe about puppies. I like dogs.” Yunho tells him, chuckling.

“Just puppies? Not greater things?” Seonghwa questions.

Yunho scoffs as though affronted. “I really doubt there’s all that much that’s greater than _puppies.”_

“That’s…not what I meant.” Seonghwa rebuffs, but Yunho just looks confused. “Surely you want for something more than this, than sitting at home with me for the few hours you are given life.”

“Well, I thought maybe we might go out eventually.” Yunho replies amiably, squeezing his hand and pivoting so he’s fully facing him, with one leg up on the couch. “We could get dinner, or go to one of your gallery showings, or to the park. If we go to the park, there might be puppies, which would be ideal.”

Seonghwa frowns. “I meant…outside of me.”

Yunho’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you—wouldn’t you want to…do things on your own, sometimes?” Seonghwa asks.

Yunho still looks puzzled. “No. I was given life so that I could love you.”

Seonghwa’s face blazes and his throat feels dry. His next words are raw when he speaks again.

“And do you? Love me?”

Yunho nods, smiling.

But Seonghwa just scoffs, looking away. “How could you possibly love me? You don’t even know me—”

“Of course I know you.” Yunho protests, taking Seonghwa’s hand and laying it over his chest, over his heart. “I know you love cleaning and being doted on while still caring for others, and that it kills you not to have a partner or close circle of friends to do that with. I know your preference is for tea over coffee, because you don’t like bitter things, and that you love cooking but you hardly do it because you usually eat alone. I know you’re an Aries, and that your favorite color used to be blue but now it’s pink, specifically the fuschia pink that corresponds to your birthday. I know you love long showers and that you tell people your name means ‘to become a star’ but when your parents registered your name they actually registered it as ‘to become harmony’, and told you growing up that it was both, but you don’t tell people that unless you really know them.”

Seonghwa all but chokes, something like terror and confusion and maybe something else seizing his throat. “H-how…how do you know all that?”

Yunho gestures toward the art studio across the room, letting out an incredulous huff of a breath. “You pour so much of yourself into your creations, and by extension, me. That bit of your heart that you molded into every part of me is what makes up the very fabric of my soul. I can feel the devotion and care you put into creating me, I know all the unspoken wishes and dreams you carved into the clay which you formed me from. How could I _not_ love you?”

Seonghwa feels all the air leave his lungs…because Yunho is right. Art, to him, has always been a way to find himself, but to lose himself, too. He believes, intrinsically, that art and love are the same. A way to find yourself in things that aren’t you. A god may have given Yunho the spark of life, but Seonghwa _created_ him.

Created him to be everything he could ever dream of, to be someone worthy of his love, who would love him in return.

Yunho does not flinch when Seonghwa crashes into him, kissing him fiercely. He only brings both hands up to brace him, pull him in closer, card through his hair when the other man is finally settled safely on his lap.

Seonghwa has been denying what is, for Yunho, an intrinsic truth…that Yunho was created _for_ him. To love him, in all ways.

It takes Seonghwa some time to allow himself to _want._

He wants Yunho. Yunho is everything he could ever dream of in a man, but he is also his own person…Seonghwa must believe that. He also wants to believe that Yunho would choose him, even if he hadn’t been _made_ for him.

Seonghwa can’t let himself get wrapped up in his own head thinking about it…because this is a _blessing._ It is a gift bestowed upon him by a benevolent patron god. Something beyond measure. And Yunho...well. Yunho is _perfect._

Yunho seems to sense his unease, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes, cradling his face as he peppers sweet, soft kisses along his jaw.

“May I take you to bed?”

Seonghwa chews on his bottom lip, holding his gaze for a long moment. Earnest, warm…everything about his expression is sincere, and the desire is plain upon his face.

Seonghwa nods.

Yunho wraps an arm around Seonghwa and stands, easy as anything. He carries Seonghwa to his loft bed, traversing the stairs without much difficulty. Seonghwa tries to ignore the way that burns hotly in his gut, being manhandled…but Yunho is so _gentle_ with him, setting him down on the bed carefully and making sure his head is cradled by the pillows.

Yunho undresses him with the same level of care, glancing up for approval before removing every single article. Once Seonghwa is down to his boxers, he becomes a little impatient and tugs at Yunho’s borrowed tee until he leans back and rids himself of it.

Seonghwa has already seen Yunho naked. Seonghwa _sculpted_ him, made him from nothing but clay and a wooden frame, and hours and hours of labor. The curve of his clavicle and the taut lines of his abdomen are familiar beneath his touch…but they are also new in the way they have now been made flesh.

He lets his hands roam across the planes of his torso, along his own work. Yunho is exquisite. Seonghwa has never thought himself half the artist many claimed him to be, but in Yunho, he can see what they see. He is _breathtaking._

Yunho, too, takes his time mapping out the unfamiliar landscape of Seonghwa’s body; his lithe limbs and deft hands, so eager to touch everywhere they can reach. When one strays to his cheek, Yunho turns and presses a kiss to his palm before nuzzling into it, smiling. Seonghwa feels filled to the brim with his warmth and light.

Eventually, Seonghwa directs Yunho to his nightstand, where a bottle of lube sits almost full and nearly expired. At the look Yunho sends him, Seonghwa shrugs and bites his lips, his cheeks darkening.

“Mostly I stay up too late with my art, and then I’m too tired, or my hands or wrists are killing me.” He offers by way of vague explanation.

Yunho tuts at him, shaking his head as he snaps open the cap.

Seonghwa can’t remember the last time he’d been touched so intimately. The truth of it is that he’s _never_ been touched quite like this. The way Yunho takes his time with him, making sure he’s slicked up and relaxed before he lets himself press even one finger all the way inside. Seonghwa is no poet but he could write sonnets about those fingers, even knowing he had sculpted them himself. Long and slender, yes, but most of all—adept. Yunho always seems to know just what he can take, just when he’s ready for more.

He watches Seonghwa writhe under his touch with an expression not unlike awe, busying his mouth with leaving gentle nips and kisses along the sensitive insides of his thighs. Seonghwa squirms and moans when Yunho’s fingers crook just right, sending sparks of heat crawling up his spine. But he doesn’t relent, doesn’t back off…he chases that reaction, and Seonghwa chases the feeling until he’s arching back and coming with a soft cry, making a mess of himself.

He’s still trembling as Yunho gently extracts his fingers, his lips trailing up along the vee of his hips and over his abdomen, running his tongue through the mess he’s left on his stomach.

“You’re beautiful.” He murmurs, pressing the words into his skin.

“Please, Yunho…” Seonghwa begs, still catching his breath. “Want you.”

Yunho nods, grabbing for the lube again. He slicks himself up, and Seonghwa watches the way Yunho’s gaze tracks over every inch of him, eyes burning with desire. His skin goes hot under the intensity of it, of being wanted to fervently.

As before, Yunho is gentle. He is careful, and slow, and Seonghwa wants to egg him on, to goad him into showing him just what he is really capable of. But not tonight. Seonghwa wants to savor this, wants to revel in it. When Yunho leans down and kisses him, Seonghwa accepts him eagerly, their lips moving at the same unhurried, smoldering pace that Yunho has set.

Seonghwa had spent many grueling hours hunched over uncomfortably on the frigid floor of his studio crafting Yunho’s cock, his thighs and his long, long legs. Seonghwa thinks it must have been worth it for the way he fills him, for the way those muscles flex as he grinds into him, letting out shuddering breaths between them in a way that is all too human.

He doesn’t know how long Yunho fucks him like that, in that deep and languid cadence that seems to draw out his pleasure, seems to take him to the edge only to drag him away, begging him to last just a little while longer. Time seems meaningless to him, instead measured in ragged breaths and soft cries and hard thrusts that send heat roiling through every cell in his body until all of him feels it has been set ablaze.

They come together, or, perhaps their pleasure is so entwined that it only feels that way, but when Seonghwa becomes aware of himself again, Yunho has left him, only to return and clean him up.

He wants to wrap him up in his arms, to revel in the warmth of him until sunrise, and until well after that, too…but as Yunho presses a kiss to his forehead, then steps away from the bed, he is reminded how impossible that is.

“I will see you after sunset.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Seonghwa mumbles petulantly.

“I know…but this is the way things must be.” Yunho tells him regretfully, kissing the back of his hand before he pulls away. “Sweet dreams.”

Seonghwa just grunts disagreeably, and when sleep takes him, he doesn’t dream at all.

***

Seonghwa begins adjusting his schedule to spend more time with Yunho. He does not have a traditional job that heavily conflicts with his new habit of staying up until sunrise, then sleeping into the afternoon, but when an art director wishes to meet with Seonghwa before noon one Thursday, Seonghwa is certain he looks like the dead when he arrives at the man’s gallery.

Yunho chides him, insisting he should at least try for an even split of his time, but Seonghwa refuses. Yunho only has so many hours awake…he wants to spend as many of them with him as he possibly can.

It also isn’t long before Seonghwa’s meager collection of too-large clothes proves to be less than an adequate wardrobe for Yunho. That leads to Seonghwa digging out a measuring tape—and then his laptop—so the two of them can scour some clothing sites together. Seonghwa lets Yunho pick everything, but he ends up selecting things that Seonghwa prefers…which only makes sense, given the circumstances. Yunho shops like he’s dressing up for the ‘boyfriend of the year’ awards or something…all oversized sweaters, big denim jackets and flannels with soft jeans and cream or white slacks.

It’s exactly how Seonghwa would dress him.

“We can get you some warm-weather clothes when the seasonal collections drop. It won’t always be cold enough for sweaters.” Seonghwa reasons after he checks out using his ePay account.

“I like sweaters! They make someone look more huggable.” Yunho rebuffs.

Seonghwa makes a face, looking down at his own black and white striped sweater. “Do they, though?”

“Yes. I’ve literally been holding you this whole time.” Yunho reminds him, squeezing him a little as Seonghwa sets his laptop aside. “It’s the power of the sweater.”

“Okay.” Seonghwa quips back sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

Except—the first time he sees Yunho in a too-large burgundy sweater, smartly layered over a white button-up, he cannot help but to pull him into a hug.

Yunho grins knowingly, but he doesn’t say anything, even though he knows he could.

***

Weeks go by, and things settle into what can almost be considered _normal._

In the beginning, Seonghwa and Yunho tend to maximize their time together, utilizing every spare second talking or touching or at least _engaging,_ but Yunho fears it’s affecting Seonghwa’s creativity. That is until one evening when Yunho awakens to see Seonghwa across the room, completely absorbed in his work at his pottery wheel. He’s wearing his sculpting sweats and a white sleeveless shirt that shows off his arms, which are caked in watery clay up past his wrists.

Yunho can’t help but to grin and slide onto the bench behind him, hugging his middle. Seonghwa jumps, but thankfully lifts his hands away and pulls his foot from the pedal before he can ruin his piece.

“Oh, you scared me. I must have lost track of the time.”

“Don’t say it like you’re sorry.” Yunho chides, kissing his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you working again. Keep going. I’ll be here.”

Seonghwa frowns, looking over his shoulder at him. “But…you’re awake now, it’ll be boring for you—”

“There’s nothing boring about watching you work.” Yunho rebuffs, pouting a little as he nuzzles his nose against Seonghwa’s jaw playfully. “Go on, just keep working. I wanna watch.”

And so, Seonghwa does.

Yunho keeps his promise, watching attentively and not trying to be distracting in any way. He is a warm weight against Seonghwa’s back, solid and comforting. He even seems to hold his breath a little when Seonghwa moves a certain way, when he senses the glide of his fingertips becoming more gentle as he shapes the clay, careful and meticulous in his movements.

Hours might’ve passed, but Seonghwa has become so absorbed in his work that he hasn’t noticed until he takes his foot off the pedal and lifts his hands away, covered nearly to his elbows in clay.

“Finished?” Yunho asks, looking at his creation over Seonghwa’s shoulder. It’s a tall vase which tapers in at several points along its length, somehow perfectly symmetrical.

“I think so.” Seonghwa tells him, grinning. “I might let this one air dry. The humidity’s been low lately.”

“Okay, well, whatever you decide, you’re gonna need to wash your hands.” Yunho teases, holding him by the waist to brace him as they both chuckle and stand, Seonghwa careful to hold his hands out in front of him and not touch anything.

“Right…first things first.” Seonghwa agrees, heading for the kitchen sink.

Yunho stands behind him while he scrubs his hands and forearms thoroughly, first with cooking oil (an old trick he’s been using for years) and then with dish soap. After a few minutes, he deems them clean enough and towels them off with a dish rag.

Yunho still has him backed up against the counter, so he just turns in place, looking up at him expectantly.

“You missed a spot.” Yunho teases, poking at one of the many clay stains at the front of his shirt before dragging his fingers up Seonghwa’s chest to his neck and finally his chin. He earns a snort of laughter for his trouble.

“Funny.”

“Don’t act like you don’t find me entirely hilarious.” Yunho goads, grabbing Seonghwa’s hips and tickling him for a brief second before just letting his hands rest there.

“Your jokes can be a little hit-or-miss, but I think it adds to your charm.” Seonghwa replies, making a kissy-face at him and pinching his cheek.

Yunho scoffs. “Wow, after I sat quietly and let you work for over an hour, you turn around and insult my humor?”

“Actually, that was lovely and I appreciated it.” Seonghwa admits. “You know, I’m not gonna lie…when you said you wanted to watch me, at first I thought you were gonna pull a Patrick Swayze and mess up my piece in some bid to try weird fetishy clay stuff and then make passionate love to me while _Unchained Melody_ plays in the background.”

Yunho blinks at him, suppressing a grin as he cocks his head a little. “I somehow understand that very specific reference, and no, I wouldn’t ruin your piece.”

Seonghwa smiles. Yunho probably knows because it’s one of Seonghwa’s favorite foreign films, a guilty pleasure of his. “Thanks for that.”

Yunho’s grin turns sly, however, as his grip tightens just a little and he leans in to press his lips to Seonghwa’s neck. “Now that you’re done, though, I’ll gladly make passionate love to you. Although I’m not sure about about the playlist, do you even have—”

“Hey Siri, play _Unchained Melody_ by the Righteous Brothers.” Seonghwa speaks up, and across the room, his iPad mini blips where it’s docked next to his Bluetooth speaker, repeating the order preceded by a cheery, “Okay!”

As Bobby Hatfield starts crooning through the speaker, Seonghwa bites his lip and runs his hands up Yunho’s arms.

“You were saying?”

“I’m getting the sense this is specifically a fantasy of yours.” Yunho accuses, smiling playfully as he takes hold of Seonghwa’s hips and pivots them both until he’s crowding the other in against the kitchen island. “Would explain why I know about it.”

Seonghwa twists his lips up to avoid grinning, but it shows at his cheeks. “I _might_ be more than a little into the idea…”

Yunho huffs a laugh, lifting him up onto the countertop. He cocks his head a little as he starts undoing the tie on Seonghwa’s sweats. “Ditto.”

He leaves Seonghwa’s shirt on as they grind together, at first doing nothing more than kissing and letting their hands wander. Eventually, Yunho carries him to the couch and makes love to him—as promised—watching with rapt attention as Seonghwa arches and shudders beneath him until long after the song has faded.

After, Seonghwa desperately wants to nap, but he pushes through…because he’s determined to spend his few hours with Yunho _conscious,_ even if it’s hard.

***

In the daylight hours, when Yunho returns to his clay form, Seonghwa spends his time cleaning his workspace, because it’s virtually impossible for him to be productive in a setting that isn’t sparkling and organized.

Creative energy finds Seonghwa more easily after that, and he feels more drawn to his arts than he has in months. Sometimes, when Seonghwa is painting in a fit of mad inspiration, Yunho just sidles up next to him and rests his chin on the artist’s shoulder, supporting his posture and watching him work. He doesn’t demand of his time, even though Yunho comparatively has so little of it.

It was true that at first, Seonghwa tried to make the most of every hour they had together, since they were so few. But as weeks continue to pass by them, Yunho insists that just spending time together is perfectly enjoyable. Eventually, they do menial things like curling up on the couch and watching a movie together, or Seonghwa binges a drama he needs to catch up on while Yunho holds his hand and pets his hair, only half paying attention to the show.

Eventually, Seonghwa ends up investing in some gaming systems, because it _really_ isn’t fair for Yunho to just have to sit and watch him when he’s deep into work on a new piece. Seonghwa isn’t much of a gamer himself so he just buys the two that come most highly recommended. When Yunho sees the boxes for a brand new Nintendo Switch _and_ a PS4 Pro, he goes absolutely gaga.

Seonghwa wonders if that’s something he’d really considered when dreaming up his ideal partner. He supposes he likes the idea of watching someone _else_ game, not so much playing himself…and his thoughts are confirmed the first night that he lets Yunho boot up some new RPG instead of watching Seonghwa’s dramas. He enjoys it. It’s nice to just cuddle up with Yunho and watch him play through the story…and Yunho’s excitement is palpable. 

Most of the time, though, even if their night doesn’t begin with them indulging in much more _intimate_ activities, it certainly ends up there more often than not. Whether it’s Seonghwa climbing into Yunho’s lap and riding him before the credits of whatever movie they’ve just finished watching are through, or Yunho leading them up to the loft bedroom and letting Seonghwa fuck him into the mattress until he’s crying. Seonghwa has a delightful time discovering how flexible Yunho is, and just how much Yunho likes certain things—like being spanked—and he coos sweet praises at him while he turns his ass a beautiful, bright shade of pink.

On a typical night, though, it’s the early morning hours when they fall into bed together, pawing at each other until they’re both naked, dragging each other in like they can’t possibly get close enough, can’t possibly get enough of each other.

Those are the nights when it’s hardest to let go.

Seonghwa can’t sleep if he feels sweaty, so they almost always shower after they’ve had their fun. Tonight’s escapades, however, have dragged on longer than usual, and it’s well into the early morning hours by the time they both trudge back up into the loft, flopping into the freshly-made bed. Seonghwa snuggles Yunho close, but Yunho just presses a quick kiss to his forehead before trying to pull away. That earns him a whine of protest, Seonghwa’s grip tightening.

“I’ve got to go, baby. It’s almost sunrise.”

“I know. I know, but, just…stay with me? Just this once…stay with me, please.” Seonghwa begs, his voice cracking.

Yunho frowns, soothing his hands down Seonghwa’s arms..“When I turn back into clay—”

“I know, I—it’s fine. I just. I want you here, with me. Please.”

Perhaps it is the earnest, desperate tone in which Seonghwa asks that has Yunho obliging, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

Instead, he hushes him softly and pets his hair until Seonghwa nods off, then makes sure he isn’t too close to him when the first rays of dawn break over the horizon.

When Seonghwa wakes, he finds that Yunho has remained in bed, as promised. He is frozen in his clay state, lying as though he were sleeping…but he faces Seonghwa, his eyes open and expression one of serene affection.

Seonghwa cups his icy cheek and sobs, burying his face against an unbreathing chest.

What they have is beautiful, but it aches just the same.

***

Seonghwa doesn’t realize just how much he’s been isolating himself until Jongho calls him out at an art function.

It’s a _brunch_ thing, which is not only pretentious but frustrating, since it means that Yunho cannot come along. He helps himself to at least two mimosas while he dodges far too heavily laid on compliments, attempting to remain cordial in the hopes of securing a sale.

“If you stare any harder, the champagne might actually bubble over.” A familiar voice chides, and sure enough, Seonghwa looks up to see his favorite photographer.

“Jongho…long time no see.”

“Wow, you even sound a little dead. You okay?” Jongho asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Oh, I’m all right, I’ve just gone mostly nocturnal lately. I get my best work done at night.” Seonghwa half-lies.

“Nothing wrong with working a lot, but a bit of sunlight might do you some good.” Jongho teases. “You should be careful, you could go a little mad locked up in that small studio of yours huffing paint fumes constantly. Too much isolation and you might start talking to all those statues of yours like they’re real.” 

It _is_ a joke, but Seonghwa’s mind latches to the thought and runs with it. He realizes he hasn’t left his apartment with Yunho even _once,_ and Yunho never asks about it, either. He’s never posted about him on social media, because he kind of feels like a secret he has to keep. His statue of his ideal man come to life at the hands of a god, but only in the hours when the sun isn’t up? The more he thinks about it, the more it makes him sound _certifiable._

What if he _is_ insane? No one else has seen Yunho. What if he’s been imagining him all this time, hallucinating him, just as he’d feared on that first night?

“Seonghwa?” Jongho murmurs, concerned.

“Why don’t you come over?” Seonghwa blurts out hastily. “For dinner? Some time this week? Let’s say…around eight?”

Well past sunset. Enough time that Yunho will be awake.

If Yunho is even…

“Sure, that sounds great.” Jongho beams. “How’s Tuesday?”

“Tuesday works.” Seonghwa replies.

“Okay.” Jongho gives him a sly look. “You any good at cooking?”

“So I’m told.” Seonghwa replies uneasily. He doesn’t tell him Yunho will be there. He’s too terrified. That thought has burrowed itself into his brain and it won’t let him go.

It’s only Friday. He returns home and Yunho wakes after sunset, like always. He seems to sense Seonghwa’s anxious, somber mood and dotes on him all weekend. He wants him to be real. He _needs_ him to be real…and yet, Seonghwa cannot help but doubt.

***

Everything is ready. It’s 7:45, his apartment is spotless, the table is set. Yunho is awake and dressed, trying to quell Seonghwa’s anxiety as he paces.

“I didn’t even tell him about you.” He whinges. “What if he asks a bunch of questions? We haven’t rehearsed _anything.”_

“Okay, calm down. Listen. We can keep things simple. Where did you get the clay from?” Yunho asks.

“I special ordered it from Gwangju.” Seonghwa answers in a hollow voice.

“Okay. I’m from Gwangju. I didn’t go to college. My parents passed away, I don’t have any family.” Yunho replies calmly. “I’m between jobs. We met at an art function. I used to nude model, and you fell for me after meeting me at a session.”

Seonghwa scoffs. “This sounds like a bad romance novel.”

 _“So,_ we went out a few times and now we’re boyfriends.” Yunho presses on, unaffected. “I live on a friend’s couch, so you let me stay here most of the time. If he _really_ wants to go in depth, we can make him uncomfortable and imply I’m your sugar baby. Let’s say I’m a year younger than you.”

“How are you so good at this? How are you so calm?” Seonghwa asks helplessly.

“Because I really doubt your friend is going to grill me, okay? But if he does, I’ll just make something up. It’s not like he’s going to separate and interrogate us.” Yunho insists. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”

He pulls him into a gentle embrace, kissing his hair, but Seonghwa doesn’t feel all that much calmer for it. When his doorbell rings, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

This is it.

Yunho gives him an encouraging smile, nuding him toward the door. After a long, quelling breath in and out, he opens it.

“Jongho-yah, come in.” Seonghwa says, stepping aside and motioning him in. Yunho stands in the entryway, a little off to the side. “Oh, um. This is, uh. M-my boyfriend.”

Seonghwa waits for Jongho to look at him as though he’s gone insane, or at least expectantly in the awkward silence of an otherwise empty room, but Yunho steps up, beaming.

“Hi, I’m Yunho. It’s nice to finally meet you, Jongho-ssi.”

“Likewise.” Jongho says, grinning back, though a little nervously. He shakes Yunho’s hand, and Seonghwa expects that Yunho will melt back into the clay he was created with, crumbling under Jongho’s touch, but he doesn’t. They just…greet each other, and everything is _normal._

Seonghwa takes Jongho’s jacket, hanging it up by the door and leading him toward the kitchen.

“So, you must be the _real_ reason Seonghwa hasn’t left his house much in weeks.” Jongho teases.

Yunho puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

“So, how did you meet?” Jongho asks, and Seonghwa swallows nervously before Yunho answers just like they discussed, easy as anything.

Dinner goes beautifully.

Seonghwa feels as though he hardly talks, but Yunho speaks at length with Jongho about his photography techniques, inspirations, even _networking._ Yunho is a master conversationalist and Seonghwa just finds himself impressed. He usually never has trouble with these kinds of things himself, but tonight, he feels entirely out of sorts. Yunho carries on enough for the both of them.

By the time he serves dessert, it’s clear that Jongho is thoroughly charmed by Yunho, and Seonghwa could not be more grateful.

***

In the following week, Seonghwa makes a concerted effort to go out a little more. He goes out for food at a cafe, checks the hours of several places, drops into a department store and buys a bright yellow hoodie he saw in the window display because it reminds him of Yunho, and grabs some groceries himself instead of having them delivered like he usually does. He takes Yunho out, too…to another cafe, and a park, where there are sadly not too many dogs after sunset. They spot one Golden Retriever being walked, however, and Yunho bounds over wanting desperately to pet it. Seonghwa can’t help but to comment that Yunho is practically the embodiment of that kind of dog, and Yunho just beams.

Seonghwa agrees to help out a gallery, too, sorting through some portfolios for future shows. The art director wants a “fresh perspective”, hoping to spice things up and bring new faces through the doors. Seonghwa isn’t sure if it will help much, but he agrees to assist.

He’s just finishing up, walking through the all but abandoned gallery on his way out when a painting catches his eye. He lingers on it for a moment, but when he turns to leave, someone is standing behind him, blocking his path.

He recognizes him instantly, paling slightly.

“O-oh. Yeosang-ssi!” Seonghwa bleats, his voice shaking. “I…I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Was it that, or did you simply believe you dreamed me up?” Yeosang counters playfully, raising a knowing eyebrow at him.

Seonghwa chokes. “I—uh. I mean. I didn’t…I’m…”

“You began to disbelieve.” Yeosang says gently. “I felt it. Your fear, your doubt. You doubted me.”

“N-no! No. I…I only doubted myself.” Seonghwa admits, lowering his head. “You’ve…you’ve given me a beautiful gift, and I am not ungrateful, I swear.”

“I can sense your sincerity.” Yeosang assures. “And your happiness. But there is also something else. Melancholy still clings to you.”

Seonghwa swallows. “Yunho makes me…so incredibly happy. It’s just that…it’s so hard to only have him half the time.”

“You truly love him so deeply.” Yeosang responds, a question and yet…not.

Seonghwa nods, tears glittering in his eyes. “He—yes.” 

Yeosang looks regretful as he presses his lips together. “I am sorry that my power is not greater. I have given you all that I can.”

Seonghwa looks up, horrified, shaking his head. “No, no it’s—I can’t express what it means to me, and I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

After a small moment of internal panic, Seonghwa falls to his knees, pressing his hands and face nearly to the floor in sebae.

Yeosang sputters in protest as he bows deeply once, then again. “You needn’t do all that—”

“Yunho told me you are a god. I don’t…I don’t know how else to offer praise and thanks to a deity.” Seonghwa admits. “But I would like to thank you. You’ve given me something that can’t ever be repaid.”

Seonghwa modestly drops his face to the floor a third time, but it is Yeosang who feels humbled.

***

Days pass, and Yeosang cannot get the image of that beautiful human bowing at his feet out of his head.

It rattles around in his skull for long enough that he becomes bothered by it, and he decides he has to do something about it. He reaches out into the infinite cosmos and wills them to seek out Hongjoong. His power glimmers with an intensity similar to his own, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself standing in a small studio, devoid of any humans, though it clearly belongs to one of them.

“Yeosang? What are you doing here?” Hongjoong startles, likely surprised at having been disturbed.

“I need a favor.” Yeosang tells him urgently, figuring there’s no sense in beating around the bush.

“What is it now?” Hongjoong sighs.

“I need an audience with Eden.”

Hongjoong scoffs. “Eden? What makes you think I’d have any better luck than you?”

“You are his favored son.” Yeosang reminds him. “Please, I swear, I have a worthy cause—”

“Is this about that human you’ve been doting on? The one in Seoul, with the drafty art studio? The _renaissance boy?”_

Yeosang frowns. “Y-yes. He—”

“Sangie, you’re obsessed.” Hongjoong whines, throwing himself down onto the couch across the room. “I mean, I get being drawn to a human’s creative spirit, but didn’t you already do something drastic for him? Months ago you came to me all gleeful that you brought his statue to life.”

“I did, but my power is limited. I can only grant him life during the night.” Yeosang explains. “But Eden, he could—”

“Whoa, I’m going to stop you right there. You want an audience with Eden so you can ask him for a favor for your new human pet project?” Hongjoong huffs. “Absolutely not.”

“Hongjoong, please, you don’t understand.” Yeosang insists. “His art, his spirit…he’s so _good_ and deserving, and he is _worthy._ I know that Eden will see it, too.”

“He’s just a human, Sangie. There’s billions of them. Yours isn’t _that_ special.” Hongjoong quips back.

In a desperate bid to get what he wants, Yeosang blurts out the only thing he can think. “Play one of your songs for him.”

Hongjoong makes a face. “What’s _that_ going to do?”

“Just…do it.” Yeosang begs. “I promise if you do, you will see what I see.”

Hongjoong stares, unconvinced, but it is clear that Yeosang won’t budge.

Eventually he sighs, throwing his hands up as he stands from the couch. “Fine. One song. One. I don’t know what you think is gonna come of it, but I’ll play your game.”

“Thank you.” Yeosang says, and he _sounds_ grateful, _truly_ grateful, which makes Hongjoong take pause.

The rest is out of his hands.

***

Seonghwa—as he so often does—falls asleep a bit before the dawn.

He’s a light sleeper, which is the only reason he’s generally at least vaguely aware of Yunho slipping out of bed, pressing a kiss to his hair or cheek or shoulder before he returns to his usual spot at the center of the art studio. Occasionally, Seonghwa becomes aware enough to cling to him for a moment, one hand snatching at his wrist as he mumbles something whiny and unintelligible, until Yunho has to pry him off with gentle apologies.

Tonight, he does not wake when Yunho leaves him.

Tonight, he is visited by a vision similar to one he’s received before. A dream that feels real, a dream with such vivid detail that he does, at first, mistake it for memory.

This feels different from the vision he’d had of Yeosang, though. It is similar, but he somehow—intrinsically—knows that it is not him.

Seonghwa isn’t being sent an image, or a visage. In Seonghwa’s dream, he only hears a song.

There isn’t anything accompanying it, but his mind supplies a visual worthy of the beautiful melody. Lights dancing in the sky above the northmost mountains, a boundary of ambiguous lines slithering along in the atmosphere. He feels blanketed, protected by their light.

He wakes with a sort of warmth in his chest that he cannot describe, immediately moving toward his canvases and paints.

He is so distracted by this all-encompassing spell of inspiration that he does not even notice he has neglected to stare longingly at Yunho’s statue as he so often does while drinking his morning tea, lamenting his lack of company and conversation.

Instead, he hunkers down in front of an easel and does not look away from it for a long, long while.

It is after sunset, it must be—Seonghwa hasn’t noticed because he has his studio lights on, allowing him to see fine details and subtle color shifts on his canvas—but surely the sun must have gone down. He only realizes when Yunho pulls up a chair to sit next to him, watching him work. 

“Inspiration hit?” He doesn’t seem at all perturbed that Seonghwa hasn’t taken notice of him until that very moment. In fact, when Seonghwa jolts in his seat in surprise, he only looks amused.

“Y-Yunho—god, I lost track of the time again.” Seonghwa mumbles with a cursory glance toward the now-darkened windows.

“It’s all right. What’s this?” Yunho asks, nudging him a little.

“I don’t know. Last night I just…I heard this song in my head. It was so lovely. I can’t really remember the melody, just the feeling it left me with. But I _wanted_ to remember it.”

Yunho cocks his head as he tries to parse out just what is taking shape on the canvas. “You don’t usually do landscapes.”

Seonghwa shakes his head. “I don’t, but this isn’t exactly a _landscape,_ per se. It’s different from my usual, though, for sure. But for this one, it just…felt right. You’ll see.”

Yunho presses a kiss to the high curve of his cheek. “Well, regardless, it’s beautiful.”

Seonghwa thinks so, too.

***

Seonghwa spends days on the painting. When he’s finally finished, his body protests every minute movement, even just trying to straighten out his spine. He really needs to stop doing this to himself.

Yunho dotes on him, running him a bath and then making good on his promise of a full-body massage. He is on his best behavior, clearly focused on Seonghwa’s pain, but Seonghwa himself ends up whining and begging for Yunho to touch him in _less platonic_ ways. Yunho, of course, obliges him, and after he’s sated, Yunho cleans him up and insists they take a short walk to let Seonghwa stretch his muscles and get a little treat, like ice cream or boba tea. The last thing Seonghwa wants to do is leave his house, but he ends up agreeing when it becomes clear to him just how worried Yunho is about him.

When the both of them are gone and the apartment is quiet, the two gods appear as if dropped out of thin air.

“All right, we’re here. What did you want so desperately to show me?” Hongjoong grumbles. He’s about to round on Yeosang in irritation when he sees it; the canvas, fresh paint still drying.

Hongjoong goes completely still, and Yeosang just _smirks._

The painting depicts Earth as seen from orbit, dark against the backdrop of the cosmos. Along the curve of the horizon, an aurora snakes across the hazy atmosphere in vivid shades of pink and red and green and blue. The stars almost seem to twinkle whenever the angle changes, and the longer Hongjoong stares, the more detail he sees. In the blackness of what is meant to be space, there are subtle shifts in color that follow the patterns of the stars, and in the off-black strokes of paint, he can see what looks like the arms of a deity encircling the earth. Guarding it. Protecting it.

Hongjoong had only sent him music. A melody, one he has been mulling over for some time.

Seonghwa has taken the emotions expressed in that song and turned it into a _masterpiece._

“He is really something, is he not?” Yeosang murmurs, proud.

Hongjoong sighs, throwing his hands up. “All right, I admit…your little human really is something special.”

“So then… you’ll do it? You’ll ask for an audience with Eden?” Yeosang asks.

“I’ll _speak_ with Eden. I can’t make any promises…but I promise to make his case.”

“Thank you, Hongjoong. I owe you one.”

Hongjoong holds up a quelling hand. “None of that. The last time we tried to keep a tally of favors, wars broke out. Let’s just leave it as-is.”

Yeosang chuckles softly. “All right, fair enough.”

Hongjoong finds himself staring at the painting again. It’s a long moment before Yeosang speaks again.

“You know, he would give it to you, if you asked. If you…explained things to him. About sending him your song.”

Hongjoong lets out a soft breath, but as he opens his mouth to respond, they hear the keypad beeping at the front door.

“Perhaps another time.” He whispers, and in a blink, the two of them are gone.

***

As the days pass, Seonghwa’s aches and pains fade, thanks in part to Yunho’s efforts. Not only does he soothe him physically with massages and ensure Seonghwa doesn’t lift anything heavier than a pillow in his presence, but he also all but sprays him with a squirt bottle when he sits in a position that looks anything less than perfectly comfortable. His doting would be annoying if Seonghwa wasn’t appreciative of the relief it brings his body after just a couple days.

Seonghwa’s brain takes a few days to reset, too, so as the evening grows later, he lets Yunho hold him in his lap while he plays some FPS that Seonghwa barely grasps the concept of. All he knows is that when Yunho is doing well, he makes a lot of delighted, victorious sounds and kisses Seonghwa’s cheek. When he _isn’t_ doing well, he grumbles and buries his face into the other’s neck, holding him tighter around his middle with his controller still in-hand until Seonghwa coos at him that he’ll do better in the next match.

Yunho can easily game well into the early morning hours, so it’s late by the time they fall into bed. 

Seonghwa doesn’t know how often one is meant to meet a god, once you’ve won their favor. He thinks that once is a blessing, and twice is a gift.

The third time Yeosang comes to him, it is in a dream.

He looks more ethereal than ever, dressed in silken robes and _glowing,_ his hair golden and shimmering _._ He smiles beatifically, standing in a pure-white void as though he has been awaiting him.

“Seonghwa.” He greets warmly, motioning to the side. “We meet again.”

This is different than all the times before. Before, Yeosang had sent him his visage through dreams, but he never spoke. His voice sounds different than it does in the real world; there’s almost an echoing quality to it.

Seonghwa glances to the place where Yeosang had gestured. There, he sees Yunho, returned to his clay form, seated upon the floor. There is also another man Seonghwa does not recognize. He is smaller than Yeosang but he exudes the same energy, though he is dressed more eccentrically. His hair is white, the strands glowing bright and silvery when he moves.

“This is Hongjoong, lesser god of musicians. You haven’t been formally introduced.” Yeosang tells him. “Hongjoong sent you his song some nights ago.”

Seonghwa startles, turning to the other god. “That was you?”

“It was.” Hongjoong confirms in a melodic voice. “The painting it inspired…I liked it very much.”

“O-oh…thank you.” Seonghwa stammers. “I—your song, it was beautiful.”

Hongjoong smiles, and though it is far from disingenuous, there is something hidden there beneath the surface of his expression.

“Don’t mind him. He’s not the most personable.” Yeosang assures, and Hongjoong throws him a scathing look. “But, his music and your painting are not why we are here.”

“Oh.” Seonghwa murmurs, at a loss. “Then…why _are_ you here? In my dream? I _am_ dreaming, aren’t I?”

“You are.” Yeosang confirms. “Some time ago, I granted you a gift. But I have come to understand that this gift was quite…unbefitting for an artist such as yourself.”

Seonghwa’s face falls. “N-no, please, I…I did not mean to seem ungrateful, I swear, I could not wish for a greater blessing. I love Yunho with all that I am and—”

“Seonghwa, please.” Yeosang quells, holding up both hands. “We are not here to take him from you. Quite the opposite.”

“O-oh.” Seonghwa clamps his mouth shut. “I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize. Here.” Yeosang crosses the small distance between them, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him a few paces away. Faceless humanoid forms appear beneath Yunho, lifting him upward. Then, there is another who appears, though he is not faceless at all.

He is taller than Yeosang and Hongjoong both, draped in robes that seem to be woven from starlight. Dark hair frames a kind face, and as he reaches toward Yunho, even in his clay form, Yunho reaches back.

Their hands touch, and the clay begins to fade into flesh from the tips of his fingers outward, until he is entirely human once more.

“Look. _Our_ maker…god of creation, Eden.” Yeosang explains. “His influence is much greater than mine or Hongjoong’s. He has the power to grant Yunho a _true_ life. And for all you have shown us, he agrees that you are worthy of such a gift.”

Seonghwa stares, eyes wide. “Truly?”

The god called Eden smiles, inclining his head. The forms beneath Yunho sink into the ground and place him down gently as they disappear, though he does not stir, his eyes closed as if in sleep.

“Truly.” Yeosang answers.

Eden motions with one arm, the galaxies within the fabrics of his sleeve ebbing and shimmering as he does, and then he is gone.

Seonghwa turns to Yeosang, appearing almost terrified. “But…how could I ever repay him? How could I ever repay _you?”_

“You only need love each other.” Yeosang tells him, smiling amiably. “The rest will follow.”

Seonghwa watches as their forms fade away, as the blinding whiteness around them melts into the inky black of sleep.

That morning, when the dawn comes, sunlight spears through the space between his curtains, and Seonghwa feels tears welling in his eyes, watching as it illuminates Yunho’s human face for the first time.

  
  


**-Epilogue-**

Seonghwa stands at the stove, carefully tending to the eggs sizzling on the frying pan in front of him. His waffle maker pings, and he makes a small noise of panic as he tries to decide between potentially burning his eggs or potentially burning his waffle.

“I’ve got it.” Yunho assures, pressing a kiss to Seonghwa’s temple as he steps up behind him to take his place at the stove.

“Thanks.” Seonghwa responds gratefully, kissing his cheek in return before going to rescue the waffles.

Later, their plates piled high with a rather exorbitant breakfast of fruit-covered waffles, eggs and bacon, they eat together at Seonghwa’s kitchen table that no longer feels too large.

“The paperwork took so long to process, but I finally heard back from the lawyer. We’re officially official.”

“Yeah?” Yunho asks, perking up.

“Mhm. The Edenary Creative Foundation is live.” Seonghwa tells him.

“That’s amazing.” Yunho sets down his fork. “What now?”

“Now we start the work.” Seonghwa answers. “Reaching out to kids and creatives who need a helping hand. We’ll start small, with art supplies and the like. Then we can build up to free workshops and seminars. After that…scholarships, school programs, maybe even an art school.”

Yunho tilts his head, smiling fondly. “You know…Eden didn’t ask for repayment. What he gave, he gave freely.”

“I know.” Seonghwa insists, poking absently at his eggs. The golden yolk breaks and runs across the plate, drowning one side of his bacon. “But this was the only way I could think to thank him. Inspiring and facilitating a new generation of creators in his name…it’s the least I could attempt. After all, a gift like this deserves a lifetime of gratitude, don’t you think?”

Yunho slides his hand into Seonghwa’s, entwining their fingers. He nods. “I would gladly fall to my knees before the altar of the god who granted me a life with you.”

Seonghwa’s face colors, but he squeezes Yunho’s hand and doesn’t look away.

“Well…it isn’t an altar. But, it’s a permanent legacy, and a continuous impact on the creators of tomorrow. Hopefully.”

“It will be.” Yunho assures, smiling.

“We can only hope. All I can do is set everything in motion and pray it works.” Seonghwa replies, not sounding too convinced.

“That’s all you have to do.” Yunho replies. “If you put your best efforts into it, I have every confidence that the rest will follow.”

“The rest will follow.” Seonghwa murmurs, his gaze straying toward the open windows, where sunlight streams in behind Yunho and turns the flyaways of his bedhead bright gold, like a halo.

Seonghwa can’t even remember a time when he resented the daylight. Yunho is so at home in it, shining bright and warm, like his own personal sun.

He may not have been asked to repay the gods who granted him this; this life with Yunho, this love. But he would spend the rest of his life returning that kindness, whether expected of him or not.

Devotion comes easily for Seonghwa…both to the man he loves, and to the benevolent gods who brought them together.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I can be found on Twitter and CC @VermillionVamp


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